The Wistful Incense
The knife slipped from Elias Thorne’s grasp, clattering against the muddy earth with a sound that seemed to cut through the thick, wet silence of the siege camp. He stood at the edge of the perimeter, his hands shaking so violently that he could not hold the handle steady, the metal cold and slick with the condensation of a night that had turned suddenly, brutally cold. The smoke from Calais...
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